Pure White
by Chesiere Cat
Summary: The color pure white never exists in nature, for white covers a multitude of sins. A series of Makishima-centric drabbles. (Gen and various pairings.) 3rd entry: Empathy. "What do you usually dream of?" Choe Gu Sung/Makishima. BL. Worksafe.
1. Artificial

"Never use pure white; it doesn't exist in nature." - Aldro T. Hibbard

.

**Pure White: **

**Artificial**

.

Lust; carnal desire, a prime instinct known to the race of men. It is too easy to let oneself succumb to the embrace of lust, forgetting everything else in those moments of fleeting passion. Lascivious temptation prompts men to fall prey to their own desire. And for all the means of fleshly satisfaction desire foments, lust then becomes the prey's master no matter how much control he believes he very well has.

Still, is it possible for one's desire to be artificial?

"Ah…"

A moan, so soft like wisp of whisper fades almost unnoticed under the sound of sweet music. But sweeter is the fact that nothing - even the faintest of faint whisper - can escape the heightened sense of hearing as unblinking eyes fixate on the ever-so mysterious creature that seem now very bare and vulnerable underneath him. Gazing at the exposed paleness, he feels youth. Experiencing the control he has over such an enigma, he feels power.

.

_Joy, bright spark of divinity,_

_Daughter of Elysium,_

_Fire-inspired we tread_

_Thy sanctuary._

.

His fingers trace the flawless skin as his tired brain tries to mesmerize the smoothness. His artificial flesh cold and unforgiving as his temperature sensor yearns to feel the wonderful heat inside.

"Makishima, you are so beautiful…"

He thrusts in deep. Once. Twice. Wanting to hear that enjoyable sound of moaning more.

"Let me hear you. Let me hear you."

It has easily become an obsession.

For his tongue to lick upon that soft skin, leaving trails of artificial lubricant so close to saliva secretion. For his fingers to keep touching and caressing and grabbing and squeezing until that lithe body writhes and thrashes and becomes pliant from his ministration. So that he can hear again those lovely moans that make him feel…

Alive.

.

_All creatures drink of joy_

_At nature's breast._

_Just and unjust_

_Alike taste of her gift;_

…

Is it possible for one's desire to be artificial?

Makishima Shogo knows it is. For he smiles every time he knows it will please and lies as much as he can lead a soul delusional. As long as it fits his purpose. As long as he can test the capacity of desire. When a man faces fear, his soul is tested. What he was born to seek; what he was born to achieve, his true nature will become clear. But what of when a man faces temptation?

Strangely, he can still taste a man's fear in his desire. For the man craves so strongly - so voracious the desire has manifested - for the thing that he fears to lose.

To cling onto one's life so desperately. To still want to feel the thing he no longer feels because of the exchange he made to live longer. No one lives forever, and yet humans still dream of achieving immortality while it is obvious what the truth is.

What can truly be immortal is a man's legacy. A name; a history, the deeds he has left behind, glorified as if it has achieved eternity which is actually an allegory in the lifespan of humanity's eyes.

.

_Gladly, like the heavenly bodies_

_Which He set on their courses_

_Through the splendor of the firmament;_

_Thus, brothers, you should run your race,_

_As a hero going to conquest._

_._

"Ah…" He moans softly. If he were a compassionate man, he would feel for the cyborg pity. Still, he feels nothing. He does not feel love as his body arches and squirms beneath the man's touch. He does not feel genuine sex even from the man's ardent lust.

"Senguji…" And he only calls the man's name just to boost his supposed satisfaction.

For he cannot stop a smirk and a laughter as he finally comes and the bed is stained with nothing but his own semens. The same way the only thing that oozes from his wounded aperture is nothing but the redness of his own blood.

.

_Do you fall in worship, you millions?_

_World, do you know your creator?_

_._

His own lust is fake as he feels nothing. Nothing but the physical satisfaction of flesh as he hears his own sound of laughter.

.

_Seek him in the heavens;_

_Above the stars must He dwell._

_._

He will need a new toy soon.

.

**A/N:** The lyric _in italic_ is from Beethoven's Symphony no.9, Ode to Joy.

.

This is supposed to be Itakoaya's very, very belated birthday present. But because I feel like trolling her (as she has always been the masochistic object of my trolling), I am giving her this pairing instead. *evil cackle*

Still, as I am not *that* evil. I am going to post the one with Shinya as she has requested with the next update.

Thank you, Jax and Rena-san for (indirectly) fueling my 'innocent' ideas.

And for the readers, if I haven't scared you away yet...umm...review? ^^"


	2. Desire is Death

"Shall I read you a beautiful sonnet?"

**.**

**Pure White:**

**Desire is Death**

**.**

He feels, every time, as if under a spell of narcotic. Everything seems foggy. Every thought too hazy to be formed into something coherent. In his somnolent mind, treading the line between the realm of waking and slumbering, his vision, so clouded like the smoke that will soon rise from the very tip of his cigarette, seems to be able to focus clearly on one thing:

A face, so deceptively angelic, so pleasing to the eyes with eyes the mesmerizing color of molten amber; with nose perfectly upturned matching the creature's arrogance; with lips so delicate yet so strong the impact those words they are able to speak.

It's ironic how the picture imprints now so vividly in his mind whereas he has spent years staring at the man's blurry photo.

"You don't seem well." The words, to him, are like drowned out whispers and he keeps staring at the no-longer-blurry face as a pale hand comes up to cover his own larger one, helping him hold the cigarette in place. Then orange colored flame lights up, igniting the end of his little stick of cancer.

He takes a deep drag, feeling again that familiar smoke that somehow connects him to the presence of his numbing sense. And yet, as he blows the puff out; the gray smoke veiling again the vividness of the face he has become so addicted to look at, he frowns and squints his eyes.

"Is it too dark?" inquire those enticing lips from behind the lingering veil of smoke. "Shall I draw back the curtains?"

The thin frame moves, receding away. Yet, even in his foggy state of mind, he is still quick. His arm shoots out, snatching that slim wrist, promptly dragging the figure closer to him.

Against his chest. Into his arms.

"Stay." He whispers. And the pale creature seems to listen and oblige.

And sometimes…that is all that he wants.

…

This place cannot be heaven. It cannot be heaven because heaven cannot be so dark. And yet, he has no wish to ask either that there is always light. True, he prefers that there is enough light in the room so he can see that beautiful face but he would not ask for the room to be completely bright.

He remembers being in a room where there is no darkness.

Three years. It has been three years since his first fall into the abyss where he can only keep staring and staring, wanting nothing but to shed light and judgment on the unsolved mystery that he could not then unveil. Darkness obscures the truth. Yet, sometimes, if you want to get a hold of truth, you need first to dive into the darkness.

A fool he was. To think that. For when all the darkness disappeared, the truth displayed there became so blatant. You then became a prisoner of your own nervous system.

No - there were no rats. No cage of starving rats ready to latch at his very face when their cage was let open. There was no other prisoner, no other victim that he could give up - if he would ever give one up - instead of him.

**He had only himself to sacrifice.**

Only him and the truth that he has spent so many years seeking being played again and again before his eyes. The plastination process of Sasayama Mitsuru - being skinned and cut open - as he was slowly being turned into a specimen. Alive. The Plastination process took time and he had to watch - his eyes being forced open to watch - as Toma Kozaburo delightfully studied his innards, pondering which piece should be put where to complete his art. The man's scream kept ringing over and over in his ears, haunting him even more than those nightmares he never ceased having.

Again and again and again Sasayama kept screaming. Again and again and again he struggled, trying to get away from the chair that he was tied with. Away from the light. Away from the truth.

He no longer has those nightmares now.

He surrenders. It is easier to surrender now when he stares at that angelic face smiling at him in the dim light. The only one thing so beautiful, so serene and alive aside from the faces of a dead man and his sadistic murderer. And he clings onto that one image despite all the hatred that should have burst.

If this pale creature ever tells him 2+2 =5, he would easily believe him. And he needs him, needs this beautiful creature - the former enemy that he wanted nothing more than to crush.

"Stay." He whispers. It always feels better when he cannot think straight. Because he will know all that he wants is him.

And sometimes…just being close is not enough.

…

How many times have they been doing this?

Many and many and many. Too many it has become countless. He watches as Kougami's cigarette becomes lifeless as the other crushes it in his hand. And he smiles welcomingly as the other man's lips touch his, warm tongue soon delving into his mouth, bringing the taste of that old cigarette he smoked.

**Desire is indeed interesting. **

Makishima Shogo has been wondering about the root of human's will - how to create the thing called desire. Is it possible that desire can be artificial? Or if the desire is genuine, what twists and bends such desire to the will of another's and to what extent is such twisted desire worth?

And he keeps testing it, vaguely hoping if there would be something worth calling a splendor. This desire manifested from twisted hatred and obsession - for he would never call it 'love'.

And so they keep dancing. He doesn't refuse as Kougami keeps touching and wanting and bucking wildly into him.

**If there's something that he loves, it's a game called life. **

Sometimes, in between those throngs of passion, in a frenzy of moaning and thrashing and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, he thinks he can almost feel it. That missing piece of puzzle he has been searching for.

Almost.

"Yes. Like that… Don't stop. Keep pounding into me." His breath is heavy and he doesn't care to stop his moans from sounding; they resound in the room, echoing again and again like the sound of music.

"Ah…ah…Kougami…"

His nails dig hard into the other man's skin, leaving his own marks that will remain more than just some bruises. And it is that name that drives the other man wild.

"Show me…your desire."

Like a carnivore without control.

The sex turns animalistic and it happens over and over and over again - the sound they make swallowing the little noise from the device in the background. There is no need anymore to play the Plastination clip over and over. The room is dark and while the projection device is still on, it plays nothing.

"Makishima…" His name escapes the other's man lips as their dance comes to an end and the after glow that follows leaves the man delusional. "…Shogo."

For he keeps whispering his first name.

"Shogo…"

And those strong arms wound themselves around him in a ridiculously intimate embrace.

…

Morning comes and golden eyes look amusedly down at dark ones that sleepily open. Angelic face, mysterious smile and enticing lips. It is the same every morning. The white angel is reading him a book.

"Shall I read you a beautiful sonnet?"

He closes his eyes then reopen them again, gazing up at nothing but that face - bathed in soft morning light. Those thin lips offer him a smile and the pale creature's voice sounds as he listens.

**.**

"_My love is as a fever, longing still_

_For that which longer nurseth the disease,_

_Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,_

_Th'uncertain sickly appetite to please._

_My reason, the physician to my love,_

_Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,_

_Hath left me, and I, desperate, now approve_

_Desire is death, which physic did except._

_Past cure I am, now reason is past care,_

_And frantic mad with evermore unrest;_

_My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,_

_At random from the truth vainly express:_

**_For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,_**

_**Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.**"_

**.**

**A/N:** [1] The room without darkness, the rat cage and 2+2=5 refer back to Orwell's 1984

[2] The ending sonnet is W. Shakespeare's sonnet 147


	3. Empathy

"What do you usually dream of?"

**.**

**Empathy**

**.**

Pale eyelids rises languidly to the sound of the question; it is soft - almost inaudible - as if being spoken from a faraway place.

**.**

"Why do you ask?" He inquired, turning his head to the man who had first raised the question. "Do you want to test a new theory?"

The Korean hacker paused - fingers hovering just above his laptop's keyboard - as he shifted his gaze back to the younger man lying on the nearby sofa. "Did I wake you, Makishima-san?" He didn't expect to get a reaction. He thought Makishima was sleeping and the question was just a careless thing he happened to have wondered aloud.

"No. I didn't intend to fall asleep." The younger man replied, sitting up. "But your question is interesting."

"Interesting?" The older man repeated with raised eyebrows. "There you go again. Speaking of something only you can understand. I will need an explanation." Because you wouldn't normally find that question interesting. What you usually dreamt of, perhaps. But not the question.

Artificial eyes fixed on the other man, noting how his hair at the back spiked up more than usual from earlier sleep and he willed himself to refrain from reaching over to smooth it. The man seemed to have that effect on people. Anyone getting in touch with him would easily become attached whereas the man himself remained like air - bounding himself to nothing, promising himself to no one, staying never in one place.

Truly, Makishima Shogo was an enigma. Pure white psycho-pass. Snow-white hair. Unique personality. An entirely different identity with fascinating charisma. He had never seen anyone else like him.

"Only me. Perhaps." The younger male admitted. And Choe Gu Sung didn't let amiss the slight lowering of those pale lids over cat-like golden eyes, how those long dark lashes casting shadow over alabaster skin. "Because of that, the topic is controversial."

"Controversial?"

"Choe Gu Sung," Those luminous eyes gaze back at him as the white-haired man leaned back against the sofa cushions, "What qualities and traits make one human?"

Now that was a complicated question.

"Do you mean a normal human or the 'perfect' one described by the Sibyl system?"

The white-haired man smiled at his implication. He then, however, brushed that topic aside. "A novel I've recently read suggests one quality that is human's ability to empathize. But even that suggestion is a blurry line to draw in the story itself. The main character even wondered if androids dream."

"Empathy, huh? That is as valid as saying all criminally asymptomatic people are good citizens." It was foolish to use empathy as the only criterion to distinguish a human, for in front of him was a man much more human than those they called Sibyl's livestock and yet so apathetic to life as much as he was obsessed with its meaning.

This man saw life as a game.

"…May I ask again what you usually dream of, Makishima-san?" Because it was even more foolish to ask whether Makishima Shogo possessed a sense of empathy.

Makishima's smile widened.

"Why don't you tell me what you usually dream of, Choe Gu Sung?"

**.**

It seems he fell asleep. It is rare he falls asleep while reading. He must have been really tired.

Slowly, he sits up, running a hand through his hair. A paper copy of Philip K. Dick's _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? _lies not so far away from his reach. Together with it rests a mobile phone - its white case chipped and stained forever brownish red with dry blood.

"_An android doesn't care what happens to another android. That's one of the indications we look for,_" said Rick Deckard as he interrogated Luba Luft to determine if she was an android. And yet when he wondered whether those androids dream, the android Roy Batty had just many dreams as Deckard himself.

"…_May I ask again what you usually dream of, Makishima-san?"_

The white-haired man picks up the blood-stained phone as he replays again the last clip with a humorless smile. It is unfortunate that Choe Gu Sung never gets to know what he usually dreams of.

**.**

**A/N: **In _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?_ Rick Deckard staked empathy as the quality only humans had and disregarded the importance of artificial lives. However, the validity of that test was questionable because some androids had proven to be able to feel empathy while some humans seem to lack it.


End file.
